Black Roses
by Lifeuniverseeverything42
Summary: Post-Reichenback Johnlock. As the days wear on and the anniversary of Sherlock's death looms ever closer, John begins to contemplate escaping for good. WARNING: T Rating for Suicide/Depression and feels in general. You may need a shock blanket. Specifically, an orange one. Enjoy, pls read & review - Reviews and Favs really make my day :)
1. The Heart of a Doctor

From the minute Sherlock's head hit the pavement, the second the lifeblood began to pour from his body, John knew it would only be a matter of time before he followed suit. Kneeling by him on the pavement for those few seconds before he was dragged away, he felt Sherlock's frozen skin, saw the white alabaster pallor of his complexion and the raven, ebony black of his hair, both striking in contrast to the blood red that slowly stained him, and he knew that one day he too would be similarly stained. At Sherlock's funeral, he prayed, properly prayed for the first time in many years that God would give Sherlock back to him. He prayed to be given the chance to tell Sherlock how he really felt, to tell him the truth that he had hidden inside of him ever since the day he'd met the man, that amazing, brilliant, handsome, genius of a man. He prayed that he would finally be allowed to show Sherlock just how important he was, and just how much he meant to John.

But, as the days turned to weeks, the weeks to months and the months to a year, the anniversary of Sherlock's death rolled around, and John knew he couldn't make it through another year. Part of him had died with Sherlock that day, and that death was slowly consuming him from the inside, eating away at his heart and mind like a parasite, attacking everything he had once loved and gnawing it down until there was just a shell of it left. The horror of that day haunted him, seeping into the cracks in his ever-worn armour and making him relive the trauma minute after minute. Some days, he would be out buying groceries, or being dragged for a pint by Lestrade, (trying to coax John away from the land of the dead, and back to that of the living) when his eyes would glaze over, and imaginary images of the fall littered his vision. It felt like hours before he was finally shaken back into the real world by Greg, or an anxious shop assistant. His standard reply to their enquiries was "I was miles away. Daydreaming. Sorry." But those around him knew better, and Greg would always leave 221B after walking John back home, with a strange sense of overbearing responsibility. As though if anything were to happen to John, it would somehow be his fault. The dark clouds swallowing Dr. Watson began to infiltrate his friends and family, even Harry, who on more than one occasion suddenly felt the need to 'drop by' unlike she ever had in the past. And John, on the inside, began to hate himself for being the cause of these visits. He felt 'in-the-way', as though Greg, Harry, Mycroft, all of them were only fulfilling an obligation, as though he was being bothersome by simply existing.

A plan began to formulate in his grieving mind, as the anniversary of the death of the man he loved grew ever closer.


	2. Condolences

The week before the anniversary of Sherlock's death, a bouquet of black roses appeared at the front door of their flat. No matter how much time passed, it would always be 'their' flat. The card with the flowers was in a handwriting John did not recognise, and said only one word. 'Condolences'. Mycroft, John assumed. Just the kind of professional, distant thing he would do. The flowers were put neatly in a black vase, borrowed from Mrs Hudson, and soon adorned the kitchen table with an air of mourning befitting the passing of the world's only consulting detective. If John was annoyed or even slightly miffed at the offhand manner in which they had been delivered, he didn't show it. Not that he showed much emotion of any kind really. His expression stayed emotionless and solid, whilst his heart broke underneath. And still, he kept working, performing the motions which got him through the day. Three hundred and sixty days, to be precise. Just five more, until-

"John. John are you alright? John?"

The voice of Greg Lestrade broke into his thoughts, calm, yet commanding. Capable. That was Greg all over. He knew exactly what was needed, and when it was needed, and right now, he could see that all John wanted in the world, wanted more than air even, was the one thing he couldn't have. All it would have taken to mend John for good was his very own Romeo, the tall and handsome Mr. S. Holmes, to walk through the door. That's all. Not much to ask. But it was asking the impossible.

**A/N: Sorry it's so short! Today has been crazy busy! Please review :)**


	3. Imagination

_Two days to go_

"John, dear, I'm just off out. We need milk again. You'll be alright here won't you?"

Mrs Hudson's cheerful voice broke into John's thoughts.

_Too cheerful. Didn't she realise what date it was? Didn't she understand what John was going through? Why can't she just-_

John stopped himself. She was trying to shake him out of it, and he knew she was only trying to be kind and helpful, like always, but John was just not in the mood to be cheered up. Still, he spoke in a slightly less monotone voice than usual, mainly to spare her feelings.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson. You take your time now."

"I'll be back soon dear." She popped her head around the door to the flat.

"Is there anything you need whilst I'm out? I'm happy to pick things up for you, you know that." She had long ago stopped reminding him that she was 'not his housekeeper'. To be honest, most of the time now it felt like she was his mother.

"No, thank you. I'm fine, thanks."

"You're sure?"

John nodded.

"Cheerio then!"

He heard the door to the flat close, leaving a broken John behind, slumped in his chair since the minute Mrs Hudson left. As his shoulders shook, and the tears he had tried desperately to conceal began to leak from his eyes, he reached into his pocket for his wallet. In it he kept the one photograph he had of Sherlock and himself together, taken at Mycroft and Greg's wedding, a couple of months before the fall. Sherlock looked...happy, truly happy, and John treasured that photograph, capturing a rare moment of peace for the great detective. A rare snapshot of calm in Sherlock's life of madness and excitement. Madness and excitement that had all but disappeared from his life now.

He held the photograph to his lips and allowed himself a few precious moments of time in his imagination.

_"Sherlock!"_

_"John!"_

_Running towards him, John saw the back of Sherlock's long coat flying in the wind, saw the breeze ruffle his hair. They caught each other, skidding to a halt in each other's arms. Euphoria overcame them both, and laughter bubbled to the surface. They both giggled hysterically, before simultaneously stopping, and staring at each other's faces. Changed and worn by so long apart. Their first kiss was gentle, not in the least rough or forceful on either's part, but still passionate and appreciative, understanding the meaning behind what they were embarking upon. They broke apart, gazing into each other's eyes and relishing this moment together. They-_

John's thoughts, and their link with the feeble hope in his imagination, were broken as the doorbell rang.

"John?" It was Mycroft.

A minute or so passed, as John wiped his tears away and tried to look even slightly presentable.

"John? We've just seen Mrs Hudson. We know you're at home." Lestrade too. _Can't they bloody well play happy families somewhere else, I've a good mind to-_

NO. John tore into his thoughts again, for what seemed like the millionth time. He had to STOP focusing his nightmares on other people. He had to just stop blaming them.

He gritted his teeth, plastered a faux smile on his tear stained face, and went to unlatch the door.


	4. Wise Words of Greg Lestrade

Mycroft walked into the flat first, purposefully, not really acknowledging John when he first entered. Lestrade next, glancing apologetically at John before saying, "My? Just wait a moment." lest Mycroft should continue to wander through the entire flat. He shook hands with John. "How are you getting on?"

"Fine."

Mycroft spun around.

"John you are clearly NOT fine. You've been moping around this flat for nearly a year now. Going through the motions. In one whole year- John, you've barely lived! If breathing wasn't a sign of life, I'd say you've been dead this past year, because by God-"

"Mycroft. Love, just...calm down a bit, hey? Let's not barrel straight into him the minute we've walked through the door, hmm?"

"I'm FINE Mycroft. However whilst you've been on bloody expensive trips around the world with your husband, I've been sat here at home waiting for the day when I'll see Sherlock again. When he'll walk through that door. I've been bloody mourning, Mycroft. What've you been doing? Relaxing on a £100,000 yacht? Sunbathing in the Bahamas, skiing down the Alps, need I say more? There's no remorse in you. I wish to God I had died with him that day. I thought..." John trailed off, and Lestrade and Mycroft looked at each other in dismay. That was not part of the plan. Greg coughed.

"But, John, mate, he...he died, didn't he, you saw him lying dead on the ground, John. He isn't coming back. He would want you to be out there getting on with life. If there's a heaven, or...whatever, don't you think he'd want to be looking down on you taking all the advantages and all the special things life can offer you, and living a damn good life, instead of mourning his for all eternity?"

"His life was worth a thousand of mine."

Something inside Greg Lestrade snapped. He suddenly felt the emotions that had surged through his husband a moment earlier.

"John Watson, bloody hell! Can't you hear yourself? Maybe it's easier to see from the outside looking in but God, that man adored you! He said once, when you two were on a case, and neither of you looked particularly...ahem...healthy, that I ought to make sure you were alright first. I kept trying to fix his...arm I think it was, and you had stopped breathing, so I went to try to resuscitate you. I was on my own in a single squad car, and Sherlock said that if he...went, stopped breathing, I wasn't to stop saving you, because, and I quote 'I would gladly die for him any day.' So don't tell me your life was not worth every bloody _thing_ to him!"

Greg was fuming, upset, tired and angry, though he couldn't understand why he was so angry, or who with. He looked at John, staring at the ground, tears falling down his face. He looked at Mycroft, also crying, and he couldn't stand to be there any longer.

"Good morning, John."

Greg walked out of the front door, Mycroft, shaken from his daze, following behind. They left John alone in the flat, and what Lestrade had said slowly began to sink in.


	5. The Genius in the Bones

_One day to go_

More of those bloody _roses_. What is Mycroft thinking? After everything John said to him yesterday...

The latest bunch went straight in the bin. John didn't want more of the shadowy, skeletal flowers cluttering up their flat.

The flat looked tidy; John had neatened it up ready for tomorrow. The feelings and grief that weighed heavy on his heart over the past year were beginning to crush him, his very soul seemed to be so small and insignificant he'd almost given up hope of finding any heart within him for his plans tomorrow.

_Tomorrow..._

It had come around so quickly. He felt ready, as though it had been a long time coming, but also nervous. His imagination ran riot with ways his plan could fail. Mycroft could find out, Lestrade, even Mrs Hudson would know just what to say to stop him.

_No._

This was important, this...this was for Sherlock, and it had to be done. It was all for him, John kept telling himself, it wasn't selfish, it was for Sherlock, if anything, it was self_less_. But still doubts nagged away in his mind, chipping away at his confidence in his own decisions. That confidence had to last, just until tomorrow. Less than 24 hours. Then...

Peace. At last, the haunting would be over. The constant anxiety, worse than it had been after Afghanistan, would leave him. Mrs Hudson would cry, of course. Lestrade might shed a tear. Mycroft would be too rigid to do anything of the kind. Would Sherlock have cried? If their roles were reversed, would Sherlock do the same?

John sighed. The answer would never be known now. It was lost forever, as was the rest of Sherlock's amazing brain. All gone, into a shell of a skull buried deep underground, under a nondescript headstone. No one left to remember the genius who once inhabited those bones, who gave form and structure to that...transport.

The morbid thoughts swam around in Johns head as he fell into a fitful sleep, clutching Sherlock's scarf to him, a last fragment of connection with the man he loved.


	6. Treading on Old Graves

Walking back to Bart's after a whole year felt like treading on old graves. John somehow felt like he was disturbing spirits and stirring up even more memories of Sherlock as he crossed the road towards one of his old favourite places. John recalled Sherlock's excitement when he'd go to find out what Molly had for him. He spent many happy hours destroying dead bodies, performing experiments and deducing the latest cases.

John shivered. This gun hand was already shaking and he wasn't even there yet. Over the past year his limp had returned, and he struggled his way bravely into the morgue.

"John, what are you-"

"Don't, Molly. You know what date it is. Don't...make today any harder than it has to be. Please."

"I'm here, John. Really, I'm here if you need me."

"I don't. Not now. Thank you, though. Really."

John limped through the morgue, towards the staircase leading to the roof.

* * *

Mycroft stared in shock at the security camera. John Watson-what the HELL-

"Anthea! ANTHEA!"

"Sir?"

"Phone. Now."

"It's here, I-"

"Good. Fine. Thank you."

"I don't-"

"Leave my office."

"Sir-"

"GET OUT."

As the door slammed behind Anthea, Mycroft mentally reprimanded himself for snapping. Anthea didn't deserve it. He had no time to waste over some secretary's feelings though, as he feverishly searched his contacts.

*Call*

"Mycroft, I'm busy, can it-"

"No. It can't wait. Don't you bloody well know what day it is? John's on the roof of Bart's."

"WHAT? Mycroft I relied on you to look after him. The simplest bloody thing and you can't do it; I said to tell me if he ever goes to Bart's, how long has he been there?"

"I've been in a meeting. Security cameras say he's been there for about half an hour."

"I don't care about your damn meetings, Mycroft. I'm on my way. Keep watching him. If he...if something...if anything happens, Mycroft, I'm blaming you."

"Brother, dear I think you have to blame the person who made him feel like this, and that person is not me."

- . –

* * *

John stood on the ledge of the roof, staring out over the whole of London. The roof had been taped off for much of the past year, and the stonework was crumbling away through weather erosion and lack of care. He looked down at the street below, half imagining the old bloodstains from last year still soaked onto the pavement. Small stone chips fell away beneath him, giving him a sense that he was living on borrowed time, held only by a few inches of stone.

He closed his eyes as the first person spotted him. The cries of people below him in the street floated up to him, most telling him that it will get better, to go back inside, 'don't do this mate, there's so much more for you out there.'

As a small crowd gathered, he allowed himself to sway in the wind current around the roof. He remembered his adventures with Sherlock; he remembered curling up at opposite ends of the sofa to watch telly in the middle of the night. He remembered his failed attempts to persuade Sherlock to partake of a proper meal occasionally. He remembered them crashing into each other running away from murderers and madmen, holding each other when trapped together in dead end alleys, not knowing what would happen next, but breathless with running and anticipation.

He allowed the ghosts of his life with Sherlock to finally be laid to rest; he let the breeze whisk away his nightmares. He let thoughts of a future without Sherlock start to form in his mind. He might...go for a drink with Lestrade...maybe...let Mrs Hudson give the flat a bit of a tidy up...

"John!"

The shout brought John from his thoughts with a jolt, and he pivoted around to look at the door back inside.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, hair blowing around his face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"John! Please! Don't do this John, please."

"I-"

Whatever John had been about to say was rendered inaudible with the wind whipping around the rooftop. He stepped towards Sherlock, but suddenly his back foot slipped out from behind him, along with a large chunk of the edge of the roof. Holding onto a piece of thin rubbery piping which was slowly bending under his weight, John hung over the edge of the roof. The crowd below began to scream, as John's fingers went numb, and he began to slip.

A/N: Thankyou to RainyDays-and-DayDreams, Seidenfuchs, and Ballykissangel for their reviews - All reviews appreciated!


	7. Keep Holding On

"JOHN!"

"SHERLOCK! Help me! Please, I-Aaargh-I can't...keep...holding...on." John held on as tight as he could to the plastic guttering, trying to push himself up on it, back onto the relative safety of the roof, but feeling it give way every time.

"I'm coming, John, please, just-"A scream from John interrupted Sherlock's pleas, and he saw a crack appear in the pipe.

Sherlock ran over the roof, now an obstacle course of broken bits and pieces from the labs below. He caught his trouser leg on some naked wire, it sliced into his leg, but in a desperate bid to reach John, to rescue him, to hold him and keep him safe, he ripped himself out and ran for John.

John hung on, searching desperately for a foothold in the seemingly glass-smooth stone of the outer walls of Bart's. His arms were struggling to hold him up, as was the pipe he was holding on to. This wasn't supposed to happen, this was not the plan! He didn't want to die; he did NOT want to die. Blinking away tears of frustration, exhaustion and terror, he concentrated on holding on. That's all he had to do just, hold-

The pipe snapped.

John clawed desperately at the air, trying to find something, anything to hold onto. He scrabbled at the stone with his fingers, giving himself a few petrified seconds more, his feet pressing hard against stone, his fingernails bleeding from his attempt to save himself. He searched the roof for Sherlock, but he was nowhere to be seen. Great. Dying because of a bloody hallucination.

He fell, still clawing at thin air, praying for some small chance...no chances left.

He felt himself drop, when he suddenly felt something supporting his weight. Sherlock grabbed him around his waist as he just started to fall, holding him out of a window on the top floor of Bart's.

"John, I'm not letting you die because of me. You aren't going to die. I've got you."

He pulled John in through the window, his arms straining with the effort of holding up the army doctor. John collapsed into him, smelling the familiar scent of Sherlock, with a tinge of...something new.

In Sherlock's buttonhole was a small black rosebud, of the same kind that had resided in the flat over the past week.

"The...The roses..."

"That was me, John. I couldn't just...forget you. I had to give you something, feel some...small connection with you. I was so far away...so far away. I'm coming home though. I'm never leaving you again, I promise."

They held each other close as the police and fire brigade began to arrive outside, called by a frantic passerby.

"I didn't really want to die, Sherlock."

"Why were you-"

"I just wanted to feel...you. I tried visiting the grave, I really did, but it was too...plastic, it didn't seem real, I couldn't remember you...us...there."

"That's because I wasn't there."

"This was where I last saw you alive...you were always so bright and excited and alive whenever we came here. I tried coming sooner, but it hurt too much. I wanted to feel how you felt standing there; preparing to die...I just didn't actually want to die."

"Shhhh. It's all going to be alright now. I'm here. I'm never leaving you again."

"I'll never let you."


End file.
